Unlikely Affections
by This is your Heichou speaking
Summary: He didn't recognise the place he was in, surrounded by ancient, huge yew trees and surrounded by the strangest, wildest of magics. Death/Harry slash.


**Unlikely Affections**

Words: 3,485

Pairing: Death/Harry Potter

Beta: None

Warnings: This is completely and utterly pretentious. I'm sorry.

* * *

When he awoke, early enough in the morning that it was still dark, it was to a bed of rotting needles and cool, damp earth. For a minute he panicked, wondering how someone had gotten into his room and brought all _this_ with them without him waking, but that was stupid. The earth wasn't _inside_ , rather he was _outside_ , lying on his back in thin, dirtied nightclothes. He lay there a while, trying to remember if he'd come out here last night and fallen asleep by accident, if he'd woken at all, if he'd perhaps even _sleepwalked_ , but no. His memory was empty of the last few hours, dark and smooth except for the brief, forgotten flashes of dreams and nightmares.

He stared at the sky. It was a deep, dark blue, almost black but not quite. The moon hung full and pregnant above him, its brightness enough to see as well as if it were daytime. The clouds were few and far in-between, strung along like cotton candy and floating by ever-so-slowly in a weak, forgotten breeze.

He had the strangest feeling that it was going to rain soon.

He got up slowly, each movement precise and tentative as if he were an old man with a bad back. He didn't recognise the place he was in, surrounded by ancient, huge yew trees and surrounded by the strangest, wildest of magics. But it didn't matter because, miraculously, his wand lay on the ground next to him. He wondered what it meant.

Kneeling down, he picked it up and stared at the smooth, worn holly. It was scratched and chipped in places, the marks of uncountable battles. His silent companion for so long, through so much adversity and pain and circumstance. It was precious.

But not quite right. Not anymore.

He disapparated.

* * *

Nothing else happened for the next five days - no sign that Harry had ever woken up somewhere that _wasn't_ his bed, except, perhaps, that it had indeed started raining continuously. He'd tried to return to the clearing, but he found that whilst he could _remember_ it, he could not physically apparate himself to the location. It made him wonder if he'd just dreamt it all, and yet it had felt so incredibly _real_ that he could not find it in himself to believe that it wasn't.

The actual evidence for it, though, came on that fifth morning, when he sat up to find an intricately carved wooden box sitting at the foot of his bed. It was smooth across the lid, except for a small carving of a vaguely familiar flower in the corner, but the sides of the box depicted all kinds of detailed and beautiful designs, all of them abstract and yet captivating.

He had left the box there as he got up and got ready for the day, glancing ever so often back towards it, as if to make sure it was really there.

When he was finally dressed and ready, he made his bed and sat on the edge and put the box in his lap. He was uncharacteristically nervous as he lifted the lid, only to gasp at what lay in its confines.

He stroked the soft white material for a minute before getting up in a flurry of motion, pulling the cloth out of its container and holding it up to the light.

And then he just stared.

It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. He'd recognised the material immediately as spider silk, and realised how expensive and luxurious it was, but it was more than that still.

The robe was all white, cut and sown in a beautiful, ageless style. It had a mandarin collar and long, fit sleeves that, when he looked closer, had stitching done along the border in white thread, so that tiny snakes and thestrals and crows shimmered faintly against the cuffs when the light hit it right. The rest of the robe was also all white, except for the tiny, sparkling rubies leading down from the left shoulder to the right hip, looking eerily like blood. And yet it was beautiful, and magical in a way he'd never experienced magic before.

Harry's had never been one for clothes - life at the Dursleys didn't afford him that luxury. So long as it was comfortable, it worked, and he'd never felt the desire for more, but this...

This was something that was just for him, something that was an art form in and of itself, and it took Harry's breath away.

Especially when he thought of the amount of emotion hat must have gone into giving a gift like this.

He wondered who'd sent it, and looked into the box again, hoping for a card or a sign or _something_ , but there was nothing.

* * *

A few nights later, he woke up to their sound of ticking right next to his ear, and the foreseen rain still pounding on his window panes. Still half asleep, he turned his head to see a beautiful black box on his pillow, wrapped in bright green ribbon. There was no card, no message or name attached, and for a moment he allowed himself to panic again. Someone had been here, right in this room while he slumbered on, completely vulnerable. Someone had set down a box _right next to him_ , and disappeared without another trace. _Again_!

But it was compelling. He was curious, and just like damp earth and yew trees and spider silk, there was a residue of magic in the air that was wild and intense and very much not his own, and yet still achingly familiar. He sat up and picked up his glasses from the nightstand with abnormally cold hands. The world came into focus gently as he blinked once, twice, and stared at the greyness of his room in the little light that escaped the clouds. He turned his attention once more to the box on his pillow.

It looked much smaller from this vantage point, and he could barely hear the ticking with it so far from his ear. He picked it up, bought it closer to his face and listened as he felt the ticking get louder with proximity, breathed as he felt the sound echo somewhere deep in his chest. After a while, he convinced himself to stop staring like an idiot and open it, so he unwrapped the ribbon carefully, placing it on his nightstand when it had been removed.

He had to contain a gasp when he removed the lid to reveal a beautiful, antique pocket watch. It was old, so very old that he could almost _feel_ the age of it, years upon years seeping gradually into his bones and weighing them down. He removed it with reverent, trembling hands, tracing gentle fingers softly over the small bumps of the patterned cover. It was a flower - the same flower depicted on the box he'd received scarcely three days ago - but for the life of him he couldn't recall what the name of it was, or even where he'd seen it before. It was familiar though, the answer just on the tip of his tongue. He sighed to himself, and told himself he'd remember eventually.

It seemed to tick louder as it lay in his palm. He pressed the crown and the cover lifted slowly, revealing the face of the watch. He frowned in confusion when he saw it, for was the oddest watch he'd ever seen in his life. The hands of this watch ran _backwards_.

The numbers were in all the right places, Roman numerals ran from one to twelve clockwise, black upon parchment. The hands, however, moved widdershins across the tall, elegant numerals. Not too fast, not too slow, every second counting down rather than up. Just... backwards.

There was an odd feeling in his stomach. There was something amiss, he knew it. But he didn't know what, or where to look. Who was it that was gifting him with strange watches in the night, or leaving him in random groves to wake? Who's magic was it, that called to his senses, almost as if tailor-made to fit him, to appeal to him in the strangest, most alluring ways?

He did not know, and he wasn't sure if he liked or disliked the mix of fear and anticipation that settled in his stomach when he thought of the situation, but if anything he was sure he _needed_ to know, regardless of his own feelings on the matter.

* * *

The fourth time, it was the delicate skeleton of a bird. The whole thing was hung above his bed, so that when he opened his eyes the first thing he saw were it's delicate ribs and sharp, black-tipped claws. He tilted his head, and stared in wonder at the fine bone held together only by magic.

He later found out it was the skeleton of a crow, and that it was immeasurably old. By all rights, the bone should have crumbled by now, or at least cracked and broken in innumerable places. And yet, here it was in pristine condition, as if the bird had only passed yesterday. There was magic that practically emanated from it, magic that was old and beautiful and wild and strong, so strong, to hold together something so old. To preserve. And he knew it, knew who's it was or even _what_ , but why couldn't he place it? The answer kept eluding him, running like a flighty rabbit from his questing grasp, and he felt like he was lying to himself.

It had been raining for days now.

* * *

It was the fifth time that he was given a hint. This time, there was a diary lying in wait on the modest desk in the corner of the room, black leather cover and green, green letters embossed along the bottom right edge stating his name - Harry J. Potter - in stylised, gothic font. It was old, so old his hands seems to tremble with the age of it, and yet how could it be, if it had his name on it? He hadn't lived _that_ long, isolated from the world. He knew it had been a long time, but surely he would notice _centuries_?

He had opened it gently, afraid he was going to rip the pages from their binding or damage it somehow, but to his surprise the entire thing was firm and fixed in place. There, he found a small piece of parchment, folded neatly in two. He took it, opened it to see a brief message, written in beautiful, looping script.

It was short, and merely read, ' _A place for the thoughts in your head_.'

There was no name, no clue to the identity of the sender. It was merely signed, ' _D_ ', and left him clueless. He frowned, displeased. Who was this, who behaved so secretively and suspiciously? All he wanted to know was who was sneaking into his house at night with the apparent intention of leaving him the strangest of gifts, of all the things to sneak into someone's house for, and in any case he didn't think _this_ was how it was supposed to be done. This was, undoubtedly, an odd way to go about gaining his attention, or whatever else it was the mystery sender was after.

And yet, perhaps he did know, because this magic was so familiar to him, and all of these gifts seemed to point him towards something, or someone. They seemed like puzzle pieces, like the teasing edge of a scent of a place you visited a long time ago. Perhaps the problem wasn't that he didn't know, but that he didn't want to admit that he knew.

* * *

The next time, he ended up outside again, in the same place, but not the same position. He didn't leave this time, not like the last. Instead, he walked around a little, savouring the fresh air, damp with rain, and the magic that was heavy in the air and in the breeze, and thus came upon a small clearing.

There was some sort of stone in the centre, stark white against the greens and browns that surrounded it, and it was only when he neared it that he realised it to be a gravestone. It was old, covered in moss and vines and the stone so cracked and weathered that the faint inscription upon it was nigh illegible. He walked even closer, wondering who it was that was buried here, this far out into an abandoned grove of yew trees.

There were bright red berries lying on the stone, fresh, and upon inspection he realised they were yew berries, perfectly round and plump and colourful but for the black of the seed inside. The poisonous seed.

He left them there, and turned away.

* * *

There was never a very long time between his 'gifts', the longest so far had only taken a week, but nevertheless it gave him time to think. It was in the evening, as the sun went down in bright oranges and reds, that he finally gathered the courage to enter the attic.

The door to the uppermost floor was always locked, had been since he had entered it for the first time, so long ago. It was empty but for one thing, and as he climbed into the dusty, dark room, it was the first thing he saw.

In the middle of the floor lay a small chest. It was also locked, he knew, and the key to it lay against his chest right now, strung onto a black leather rope. He entered cautiously, almost reverently, and kneeled down before it.

He ran his hand over the lid first, and he could almost feel the objects inside, calling to him, thrumming under the idea of his skin, of his magic and _self_ , and how could he have been so foolish, so _afraid_ , as to refuse that which were his own entry? He released the clasp at his nape, pulling the key down and inserting it into the brass lock. It turned smoothly, a sharp 'click' almost echoing through the bare room, and he opened the chest.

There they lay, three items that changed everything, changed _him_. Three items he had thought he hated, or at the very least, hated what they meant.

He didn't. Not anymore.

They were magic, of course they were. they were objects, but they were _his_ , and they sang with the same wild, free magic as yew trees and gravesites. They sang with the magic of the dead.

He pulled them out, one by one, and held them close, breathing them in, bonding with them. He could not escape this, no matter how hard he tried, and try he had. It was meant to be this way, he understood that now.

When he fell asleep that night, he fell asleep surrounded by Death's hallows.

* * *

That morning was by far the most pleasant, if not the most dramatic. He awoke on a sea of red stretching in every direction. It took him a second before he realised he was still inside, on his bed, and that the red was inside with him. He looked around, wrinkling his nose at the overpowering scent, and became aware of what he lay on.

His bed, and every other available surface of his bedroom, were covered in deep red chrysanthemums.

It was now, as he look upon them in their hundreds, that he remembered their name, and vaguely recalled that the pocket watch he had received not so long ago had a depiction of this exact same flower on its cover, as had the box he'd received before that.

The flower of death.

The scent was absolutely invasive, crawling into every inch of his senses until he could barely breath, until suddenly it was all gone, like a fresh breath of air.

He opened an eye slowly, having been unaware he'd ever even closed them, and his gaze fell upon a figure dressed in black, a hood covering his pale, bone-white face. And yet where most would be afraid (and rightly so), he could find it in himself to feel scared. After all, he knew this person, and loved him already.

"Master," said the deep, gravelly voice, and he shivered slightly in response, face tilting almost unconsciously to accept the touch of the man's hand on his cheek.

There was a soft, low laugh. "So responsive, my master. So beautiful."

He stared at him wordlessly and reached up slowly, so the being could draw away if he so wished. Death did not, and so his outstretched fingers found their purchase in black cloth, and he pulled the heavy hood down.

"I'm sorry I took so long," he whispered finally, staring into dark, dark eyes. Stared into the ever-deep abyss of absolute eternity. They flickered in amusement, and Death smiled.

"All is forgiven, beloved," he smiled. "Besides, what is time when you are eternal?"

Harry laughed, and his laugh was nothing like that of Death. His laugh was life, and vitality even now, and it left even Death breathless

"Harry."

He looked up at him, curious, questioning, and Death extended his hand. In his palm lay an apple of such dark red a colour that it could pass for black at a distance. It was a fruit of death, he knew. He took it anyway.

He did not look away from Death as he raised the apple to his lips, enjoying the smooth, glossy skin against his mouth and tongue, the heavy, sweet scent in his nose. It was almost strong enough to drown out the smell of the innumerable flowers that surrounded him.

He took a bite. All went black.

* * *

When he opened his eyes, it was to ever familiar trees, branches reaching towards the sky. The moon was barely visible tonight, a mere sliver in a sea of black, and yet he could see just as well as he had the first night. The night of the full moon.

He blinked, turned his head. The grave was next to him, except now, it was open. The stone stood where it always had, bright and bone-white, but this time there were no yew berries lying atop it.

He pulled himself up, and found Death looking down at him, an ever-loving smile on his thin, pale lips. For a minute he forgot himself, and merely smiled back stupidly. How could he not? He'd never seen such affection, not for him, in _anyone's_ eyes. But then he recalled where he was, and what had happened.

As if he'd read his mind, Death extended his bony hand, and he took it without hesitation. The powerful being pulled him up, and for a second he was surprised at the amount of strength in those bone-like hands, but he dismissed it and looked into the open grave.

It was deep, as was to be expected from a grave. At the bottom, a beautiful, elegant coffin lay. It was made of some rich, dark brown wood, but he didn't know what sort. For some reason, he couldn't look away, and for a minute he felt cold, as if he was looking at his own end. As if, he thought dryly, someone had walked across his grave, and the saying had never seemed so scarily appropriate.

"Who?" he asked quietly. He knew, of course he did, but he wanted to hear it anyway. He didn't look away from the beautifully crafted curves and edges, the small carving of a flower at the head, even as long fingers tightened around his wrist.

"But you know, Master."

He shook his head, and wondered what it was he'd become. Once again, it seemed as if Death had read his mind, and he wouldn't be surprised if he had. "It was necessary, dearest. You know that."

And he did.

"Why me?" And Death smiled upon his young charge, his soon-to-be lover.

"Why ever not? Who else is there, except for you, who lives and breathes death, and looks upon death, and has eyes the colour of death? Who then, except you who has evaded my realm for so long? Death could only ever love that which is it's opposite, Harry. Death could only ever love you."

He said it like it was fact, undeniable and unshakable. It felt like it too, and hit Harry somewhere in his chest with how right and true it was. It was the most truthful thing he'd ever heard, and the most beautiful, and Harry had been alone for so long, trapped in an empty house full of cobwebs and dust. Trapped by his own doing. Trapped for far too long, he decided, and so when Death extended his pale, skeletal fingers, Harry entwined them with his own, and didn't let go.


End file.
